


past present future

by Blue_Pluto



Series: keep them close [4]
Category: Descendants (Disney Movies), The Isle of the Lost Series - Melissa de la Cruz
Genre: Child Abuse, and me lol, bc descendants, carlos has magic bc reasons, core 4 have magic and talk about it, their opinions on their own magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Pluto/pseuds/Blue_Pluto
Summary: To mal, magic was her blood.To evie, it was a tool.To carlos, it was inconsequential.And to Jay, it was a death sentence=-=-=-=-=-=-Aka the core 4 on magic, the isle, and their parents
Relationships: implied jay/mal/carlos/evie/ben, implied jay/mal/evie/carlos
Series: keep them close [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1481759
Comments: 14
Kudos: 204
Collections: Supernatural Descendants





	past present future

**Author's Note:**

> comment on the mal part i use a weird combo of the live action remake maleficent and the og one. Its like maleficent was still queen of the moors but she was actually evil and not all sympathetic like she is in the live action movies…
> 
> TW!!- obvious discussion of child abuse in semi-graphic detail for the majority of the fic, and a breif s*lf h*rm refrence. It's only a sentence or two long, a general ref/description ig, basically has to do w/ evie freaking out if ppl think she is ugly/a failure bc of her mom’s abuse.

To Mal, magic was her blood. It was her history, her lineage. She was a fae, birthed to continue her mother’s legacy. Created to reclaim the throne her mother lost in her madness and cruelty, to conquer their lost land, to live up to the expectations put upon her at birth. Her magic was but an extension of that, her birthright, everything she was supposed to be, everything she would one day become. 

Using it was both terrifying, and liberating. She was evil, something she’d known for years, but she feared becoming like her mother. A fear she had admitted only once, whispered to three others in the dead of night. 

There was a difference in their evil. Her mother’s was unnecessary, powered by delusions of grandeur, random cruelty brought about for her own amusement. Mal saw her own evil as practical, an armor she would use to protect herself, and later her crew. She would use it to get them food, make enemies too afraid to attack them, keep them all as well and alive as she could. She could use her evil, and the fear it caused, to get whatever she wanted, whatever they needed. It gave her power. 

Evil was power. 

Power was safety. 

_(Though, could you truly call a child seeking protection evil?)_   


She knew she would one day have to complete the tasks her mother set out for her, but she refused to do them like the woman herself would. She refused to turn to unneeded cruelty, to hurt those she cared for. She would reclaim their homeland on her own terms. 

She would be her own kind of evil, different from her mother’s, even if they used the same magic, read the same spellbook, had the same blood. She would burn her mother's legacy and build her own, build herself from the ashes and leave her mother behind as nothing more than a faded memory, forgotten in her daughter’s shadow. And she would rise from the beaten depths of the Isle, bringing those most important with her, and give them the lives they deserved. 

(That was her dream, fueled by Carlos’s invention and their new ability to steal magic from the barrier. To free them all, and give a better life to those she loved. It would come true, one day soon, different than she ever expected. Though she was right that she would reclaim her birthright on her own terms, those terms have nothing to do with the evil she now thinks she is.)

(She will learn she was never truly evil to begin with. She will make her magic truly her own, completely untainted by her mother’s wishes. She will reclaim the lost moors, and she will fill it with the love and light her mother destroyed, those she loves by her side.) 

-=+=-

To Evie, magic was a tool. She had no real feelings to it, like how a writer feels no fondness for pens, nor a painter for brushes. She used alchemy books to mix beauty products for her mother, keeping the old woman preoccupied with something else, allowing Evie precious moments of freedom from her mother’s “love”. The word was so mutated in the queen’s mind, as if her unending barrage of insults was the same as Mal’s soft smile, Carlos’s beautiful rambling, Jay’s protective arms. 

The best use for her magic was concocting healing brews, things she could give to her gang to save them even a bit of pain. A cream to clear the bruises on Carlos's chest, small packets for Jay to trade so he need not steal while injured, a bite of apple to save Mal’s life. Things to protect the three most important people in her life. 

(Though, she had a hidden use for these healing salves too. A secret mix to hide scars, to blend discolorations in with the rest of her skin. She used it only when she truly needed, the others would easily tell if every scar she once had disappeared. But, if she ended up bleeding in the middle of the night, scratching at her skin and sobbing because her mother was _right _she was so_ ugly _and_ useless _and _worthless, _and said scratches disappeared before morning, well, no one would ever need to know they ever existed.

Because, truly, what right did she have to complain? What gave her the right cry and sob because her mother said something cruel? The others had parents who beat them till they bled, how could her mother’s words ever compare? Even if her mother screamed until her voice was raw, even if she repeated that Evie was ugly and worthless until the girl could do nothing but believe it herself, even if she forced her to avoid even the small amounts of food they could scrounge up, weakinging her to the point of fainting, possibly death if the others hadn't shoved food in her hands and forced her to  _ eat _ , as if hurting herself would make her more beautiful. 

Even if the Evil Queen, known for her own effortless beauty and even more effortless cruelty, hammered that lesson into the child’s head. That beauty is  _ pain _ and the only way to have worth is to  _ hurt  _ and you must  _ hurt _ to be  _ loved _ , and if you are not in pain you are not beautiful you are not trying hard enough you are failing and they will all _ leave _ and you will be left with  _ nothing _ but  _ pain _ and your own  _ ugliness _ .) 

So, Evie was thankful for her magic, thankful she could heal those she loved, and hide things that would hurt them. Thankful she could keep her mother’s suspicion away, when the old woman’s view shifted from seeing Evie as an extension of herself to seeing her daughter as a competitor, someone who was out to betray her and take her place. A gift could appease the woman, at least for a bit, reminding her that the child before her had hair too light, skin too dark, lips too pale to be the girl the queen despised. Not that the queen wouldn't try to change that, pushing the child to look more beautiful than the girl who bested her, then punishing the child for being more beautiful than herself. 

Her mother’s erraticy gave Evie some odd mix of both hatred and jealousy for her half sister. Her mother wanted her to be more beautiful than Snow White, going as far as to try and even bleach her daughter’s skin, forcing Evie to be the subject of dozens of ill advised experiments to make the girl _ “beautiful” _ . Evie hated her sister for the standard she set, for leaving her on the Isle, for their mother’s obsession. But she was desperately jealous of her, desperately wanted to be just as beautiful, partly so her mother would leave her be, but more so she would never lose the love she held so dear. 

She feared that more than all, more than death itself, losing those she loved. 

She’d heard tales of true love since birth, heard the idea scoffed at and hated. Told it was something for Aradon royalty, something she would never have, should never want. And yet, despite all that, despite the evil in her, the evil surrounding them, she  _ had it. _ Had it with three incredible people she loved more than anything. But she knew she wasn't as beautiful as the princess in auradon, knew she wasn't as good as them. What if she lost it? What if the most important people in her life left, because she wasn't beautiful enough to be worthy of their love? 

(One day, she will learn that beauty is not worth. One day she will learn her three-turned-four lovers would never leave her, least of all over something so meaningless. She will learn that she is beautiful because she is kind, and that those who love her do so for her mind not her body. And she will learn that she need not live to please them, that they will always exist as pillars of support in her life, but she will be able to go and become her own person, do what she wishes without worrying if what she wants would make them dislike her, make them want to leave. She will be able to grow and heal with them, work with them to build a life for themselves and a safe world for the other children like them. One day she will speak with her sister, using the cup bought just for her, something she will have done a thousand times before. And she won’t be cured, the memories of her mother’s voice will always haunt her, but she will have people who love her back home, and wedding rings comfortably heavy on her fingers, and kids to pick up later from school, and the knowledge that the lost children of the Isle are free, and the memories will be pushed away with ease. 

One day she will use her magic to help her heal, not hide her pain. 

That future may be far away, too far for her to see where she is now, trapped on the Isle, believing lies about love and herself. But it exists, and it’s waiting for her.) 

-=+=-

To Carlos, his magic was inconsequential. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t exist. The only evidence of it was a flash of pain, quick, white hot burning in his chest when he pulled pure magic from his device on accident. And when he blinked the stars from his eyes, when he managed to pull breath into his lungs again, when he finally quelled the panic rising in his chest, he forced himself to  _ ignore _ what had just happened. He made himself believe that the pain, the sudden surge of power, the overcoming sense of dread, was some kind of fluke, some byproduct of the barrier.  _ Pure mortals must not handle magic well _ , he decided, and let the memory fade to the back of his mind. 

Because it was easier. It was easier to let himself believe that he had no magic, to deny the obvious in front of him. It was easier to ignore the instinctual feeling that this magic was  _ his _ , that there was something  _ darker _ about it, darker than the magic of the barrier or Mal’s spells. 

It was easier, because to accept it would be to face it. And to face it would mean he would have to use this magic, this magic that felt so instinctually  _ wrong,  _ yet so much  _ his _ .

The magic felt  _ evil, _ and even on this Isle of the forgotten, where evil was revealed in, evil was celebrated, he feared becoming evil himself. Because to him, there was very little true evil on the isle. The evil belonged to the adults, the ones banished for their actions. Jafar, Maleficent, the Evil Queen. His mother. 

The other children may see themselves as cruel and evil, but he saw the truth. They were neutral, survivors in this abandoned wasteland. Born with evil inside them, and countering it with enough good to turn their black hearts gray. Protecting each other, caring for others, helping in the backhanded way you only understood if you grew up in a world where kindness brought pain. 

And yet, despite the fact that any impartial party would tell you they were all the same, he saw himself as different from the rest. He could see the good they did, see them balance the scales to keep themselves from falling into evil. But no matter what he did, it never felt like enough. He felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a cliff, held up by nothing more than a fraying rope. And if he accepted this magic, it would slice straight through, sending him to his doom. 

(He was too close to see the good he did. His mother’s screaming of how he was so horrid to her, how he brought her so much pain, how much she wished he was a  _ good  _ son confused him. He saw himself as bad, and saw that as an easy descent into evil, an easy descent into becoming those who had hurt him and those he loved.) 

(He didn’t want to be evil, evil like Maleficent who would snap Mal’s bones with cold eyes. Evil like Jafar who’d beat Jay for bringing one to few things home. Evil like the Queen, who’d lie and scream and dim the brightness of Evie’s smile. Evil like his mother, who would hurt and hurt and hurt and never stop as long as it got her what she wanted, never feel remorse for the pain she brought.)

So he did with his magic what he did with his other problems, forget. Forcing them to the back of his mind, focusing on the immediate, focusing on surviving day to day. And you can’t blame him, not really. On the Isle every day is about making sure you live to your next, and that you can bring a handful of others with you. 

And it may not have been his fault, but in doing so, in pushing aside the pain it brought and forcing himself to forget, he created more problems for himself. Because his magic would not go away, same with how pretending his mother didn’t exist didn’t simply make her disappear. 

(One day, he will be forced to face this magic, to accept it as part of himself. It will bring him pain he doesn't deserve, but he will overcome it, four others by his side. He will realize that the evil he felt was nothing more than a reflection of his own fears, that he could never truly become evil. Because he didn’t want to be, won’t want to be, will never find joy in causing others pain. The things that will make him happy are bright days and small animals and unconventional dates and the laughter of children trying chocolate for the first time. 

He will realize he could never be evil, never turn into those who hurt him. Never become his mother. And he will face his other problems, the ones so buried he hadn't thought of them in years, and he will overcome those too.) 

-=+=-

To Jay, his magic was a death sentence. 

He wasen’t stupid. He’d know his father’s story as long as he could remember, heard the man rant and scream it so many times he had it memorized. He knew that his father cared only for revenge on those who defeated him, cared only about his lost power, cared only about seeing Aladdin and his genie suffer. 

He knew Jafar didn’t care about him.

He’d always known Jafar didn’t care. That Jafar hated him. He could see it in the man’s cold eyes, the disgust for the child he brought into the world. HIs father didn’t even name him, just called him ‘boy’ until Jay was forced to go out into the world and quite literally make a name for himself. Jafar was cold and distant, ignoring him until he made any tiny mistake, then exploding in violent anger to punish Jay. 

There was only one reason Jafar kept him alive past his mother’s death. Jafar was a businessman. He saw an opportunity with this child, to raise him as a thief, one of the only ways to get power on the isle. Jay was nothing more than an asset, and if he didn't complete his duty, he was punished. 

(How ironic. Jafar made Jay become what he hated most, and then hated Jay for being what he was raised to become.) 

Jafar hated him. He never said it outright, but it was clear. Back handed comments and sneers when Jay did certain things, an expression he only saw directed at him, or during one of his father’s rants about his enemies. Jay was a constant reminder of the man’s failure, a mirror of the prince who bested him. A child, born in the streets, prince of thieves. Jafar despised Jay for being like Aladdin, for throwing his failure in his face just by existing. 

(No matter what Jafar thought, Jay’d always seen himself more like his father than the man’s enemies. He was on the isle, wasn't he? How could he ever compare to a hero? His magic was not that of the genie’s, it was his father’s last mistake. He was a thief, like how his father sought to steal the throne, not like the so called ‘diamond in the rough’. His dark skin and knowledge of his language and culture came from his father, even if they were traits he shared with the Sultan and Sultina of their home.) 

Jay knew Jafar would kill him if he ever found out about his magic. Whether because it was one more thing that marked him like his father’s enemies, or simply because of his father’s twisted obsession with the genie, he knew if his father found out about his magic he’d end up dead. 

(He’d imagined how it would happen. How Jafar would find out, and that sneer would appear on his face, and he’d kill his son. Or he would smile, fake and twisted, and demand Jay do something impossible. And when Jay “refused”, when he “lied to” and “disrespected” his father, the man would kill him for his disobedience.) 

His magic was dangerous. It put him in danger. He couldn't even control it. When he was younger it would act without his permission again and again, lashing out when he least expected. Making it all the more likely to be noticed. 

(Though it only acted out in certain ways. A piece of fruit just out of reach jumping into his hands, a ledge appearing to catch him from a fall. It still was infuriating.) 

By now he’d used up all the mana he’d been born with, the barrier stopping him from generating more. And he was perfectly happy this way. He hated his magic. Hated it with a burning anger that had nowhere to go, so it burned him from the inside out. An anger that lasted for years and years, a secret, steady flame in his heart. 

(It wasn't always anger. When he first understood what it meant, the buzzing in his skin, his father’s obsession, it was  _ fear _ . It was all encompassing, crushing fear that held his tongue and clogged his lungs. But over time, that fear turned to anger. Anger at the man that controlled him, anger at those around him. Anger at himself, for being born with something that could hurt him, could kill him, could make him break the promise he’d made.) 

(Along with that anger, grew hate. Hate for his magic, hate for himself. It was another thing that made him like his father, another piece of a painting that mocked him. A painting that showed how he was the same as the man he hated, the man who hurt and abused him. How he was what he hated.) 

As far as he was concerned, he would never use his magic again. 

(But, he doesn't yet realize that his magic is  _ him. _ That it is as much a part of his being as his blood and skin. He does not yet realize his hatred is misplaced. He does not realize that his magic will come back, powerful wild. That it will come back and he’ll be forced to master it, to realize it was always a part of him. And as much as he thought it would be his death, it was really keeping him alive.) 

(He’ll realize he’s not like Jafar. That he is much more like Aladdin, the victim not the villain. That blood doesn’t mean anything, evil cannot be carried through genetics. That he is his own person. He’ll realize his magic is his, not another thing that makes him like his abuser.) 

**Author's Note:**

> For the record rn is when they're on the isle a bit b4 they go to aradon. In auradon their relationships to their magics will change :3. Which is what all the () bits are, it’s kinda like the truth/them when they’re older looking back. Ig lol


End file.
